


A Meeting Of Mealtimes

by Britpacker



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Getting to Know Each Other, M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-04-12 06:51:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4469444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Britpacker/pseuds/Britpacker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Commander Tucker is curious about the Armoury Officer.  Where better to get to know a crewmate than in the mess hall?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set over the first half of Season One, this is a departure for me - a story I'm posting simultaneously here and at the Warp 5 Complex, fiction.entscommunity.org
> 
> Part 1 is set soon after the events of "Broken Bow".

I’m running late. It’s not my fault. Tuckers just aren’t morning people.

The mess is busy and as I grab my tray I’m already scanning for a place to plant my ass. There’s a few of my team gathered around one of the bigger tables; they’ve got the spare seat, but nothing stops a conversation quicker than the new boss trying to join in. We’ve not been out here long enough; they’re not ready for me to just drop by and be social yet. Better to give them a wave as I walk on by and pretend I don’t see the relief on their faces.

It’s early days; folks are being cautious, minding their manners and watching out for rank, but I’ll get there. They’ll be calling me Trip off-duty before we next see Earth or my Granddaddy’s name wasn’t Charles Tucker the First.

While I’m piling my plate with bacon, eggs and the sheets of dry cardboard Chef calls toast I spot him. Head down, absently tapping at his PADD with one hand and spreading peanut butter over his pancakes with the other. Now, come on! Peanut butter? That’s _weird_.

Un-regulation. Maybe the first thing I’ve seen our Senior Tactical and Armoury Officer do that isn’t completely by-the-book.

It’s kind of intriguing. A lot like him.

Before I can remember why it’s a bad idea (what was that I said about ranks?) I’m standing over his table, clearing my throat when he doesn’t look up then feeling guilty as hell when he starts up out of his chair, all embarrassed that he’s caught being inattentive to a superior officer. Or something. “Mind if I join you, Lieutenant?”

I’m giving him my biggest smile and it seems to work; he sinks back down, picks up his knife and spreads on another layer of peanut butter. “Not at all, Commander.”

His accent kind of draws out the title. I’d prefer being Trip to _Commander Tucker_ any day, but it makes me feel good when I hear it from him. Makes me wonder what he’d do with my name, if ever he could unbend enough to use it. He’s bright, too; those smartass little asides of his on the bridge prove that. If it wasn’t for the iron rod up his ass I figure he could be real good company.

“Whatcha workin’ on?” I ask, because it was my choice to sit here and I can’t ignore the guy now I’ve interrupted him. That’d be rude. Anyway, I can’t resist prodding him. 

There’s something about that imperturbable cool of his that fascinates me.

A line of colour runs right along his cheekbones. It’s not that I’m looking real close, you just can’t help notice with them being so high and sharp-cut, as fine as if they’ve been finished with a micro-chisel, and he’s so milky-looking every little change stands out. “I’m just planning some simulations; the captain’s given the go-ahead for us to start aligning the targeting scanners...”

He’s too good an officer to say it, but Momma didn’t raise no fools. I hear the unspoken _at last_ , and I guess I should be offended; a lieutenant, questioning the captain’s judgement in front of a full commander. Except he didn’t. Not really.

He’s cute, this one. Clever. And deceptive.

I thought he was a little shy and uncertain until I heard him standing up to the Cap’n over his damn popguns. When he came out with that snarky little _“With all due respect, Sir”_ , well, if Jon didn’t feel like a bratty five-year-old bein’ sent to the naughty step he’s a better man than me. He was right, I know – the Vulcans have already told us, being helpful I’m sure, that we’re not fit to outrun any trouble we meet out here, just about tootlin’ along at warp 4.89-something so it’s probably a good idea to have some kind of defensive capability, but _really_? 

It’s bad enough he’s got his Vulcan Watchdog – beg pardon, his First Officer - acting like he’s a slow second-grader on an hourly basis. Jon seriously doesn’t need it from his snitty British Tac. Officer as well.

Well he chose the guy: can’t pin that one on the High Command!

“If we can’t outrun people out here, I don’t see we’ve got much chance of outshooting them either.” 

There’s the faintest curl of the top lip, the nearest he’ll come to outright snapping at a senior officer. “A nip from a Chihuahua can give a Great Dane pause, Commander.”

It’s a good answer, which I’d be more willing to admit if he wasn’t so goddamn smug about it. “Anyway, I’ll sleep better when I’ve got a better method of defending the ship than climbing out onto the hull with a sack of mouldy potatoes!”

The image makes me laugh; I’m kind of surprised when he grins right back. “Don’t you ever let up, Malcolm?” I ask, and I’m surprised how serious I sound. Maybe I’m getting responsible in my old age, concerned for a subordinate’s welfare and all, but I want to have fun out here and I want other folks to enjoy it too.

He puckers up his lips. Cocks his head to the side and damn near flares his nostrils at me. “And I suppose you leaned against the wall waiting for the turbolift last evening because you were over-tired, sir?” he asks, ever-so-English-polite and just a little bit snippy. Why do I get the feeling he’s laughing at me here?

“I don’t sleep right unless I can feel those vibrations out of the warp engines, Lieutenant.” Hello, I’m Trip Tucker and I’m a workaholic. So shoot me. 

He sits back. Crosses his arms. “Then you’ll appreciate my concern to see some of our defences online. Sir.”

“Guess I will.” Hot damn. I like this guy’s style and who’d’ve thunk it when outwardly it’s about as different from mine as you can get?

_Give him a break, Trip. He’s good._

Jon’s advice, the second day aboard. When _Lieutenant Reed_ , all prickly and proper, was driving me batshit nuts about the _unacceptably low priority_ being given to his department’s damn requisitions. I wasn’t in the mood to appreciate it then, but you’ve gotta hand it to the Cap’n. He’s smart.

Malcolm’s gone back to chewing his pancakes and frowning over his sims, like he’s forgotten I’m even there. Now I’m the first to admit it; silence creeps me out, but somehow it’s easy with him. Comfortable.

I’ve got a PADD of my own with some test data I’ve been meaning to go over for the past few days. Maybe now’s as good a time as any to get it done uninterrupted?

I’m done before I’m half finished eating, right about the time he stands, giving his back a little stretch before he grabs my unwanted tray up with his own. “Have a good day, Commander,” he says formally, but it feels like there’s a tad more warmth behind the title than I’ve heard before. Like I’ve passed muster somehow.

I’m a little disturbed by how good that makes me feel.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lunch break is a chance for people to catch up on the hot topic of the day. For once, Trip’s more interested in listening than talking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lunchtime we didn't see during episode 1.03 "Fight Or Flight" - or my version of it at least!

Wouldn’t you know the mess would be packed tighter than an Armoury Officer’s ass the one day a guy wants a little peace and quiet? It’s as if everybody’s forgotten about work because they’re all too busy discussing our first real live – oops, probably not a good way to put that – First Contact.

With a bunch of corpses. Heck the wonders of space exploration never end, do they?

My heart lifts up a little when I spot him at a table right in the middle. Then it sinks again. He’s got company already and it doesn’t look like he’d appreciate an intruder.

Their dark heads are so close they’re almost touching, and danged if he’s not just taken hold of her hand. I‘m glad to see him settling in and making friends but now he’s leaning over his apple pie and whispering and she’s giving him the big dewy-eyes, and I _really_ didn’t see this one coming.

I can’t help myself. I grab my lunch without really looking – what’s the worst it can be, meatloaf again? – and take myself the last empty table. The fact it’s right behind Malcolm’s shoulder and if I listen hard enough I’ll make out every word in that precision-drilled accent of his don’t mean a thing: and no, I’m not fooling myself. It’s the kind of thing Mom would’ve had my hide for as a kid, but for some weird reason I don’t think I want to understand I have to _know_.

“Your reaction was perfectly natural, Hoshi,” he’s saying, as smooth and reassuring as if she’s a panicky mare at the paddock gate. “One doesn’t expect to see a dozen dead aliens dangling from the ceiling, not even out here.”

Oh. Right. Cap’n told me she’d freaked out, but somehow I never expected our crisp, upright English military type to be the one offering comfort. And doing it real nicely, too.

“I screamed like a schoolgirl, Lieutenant.” Her bottom lip’s all swollen and glossy; I wonder if he’s noticed that. “I’m supposed to be a senior officer and I panicked.”

“You’re a communications officer and that was the remnant of a war zone.” He’s so reasonable I feel myself nodding, and now I’m blushing while I stab my - whatever the hell Chef calls this deep-fried decomposed rat in pastry. Hoshi groans.

“ _You_ didn’t scream and try to run away,” she points out. 

That makes me feel better. Now I’m imagining Malcolm Reed in a pinafore and pigtails, running for the hills and screaming instead of bringing out the biggest damn gun he can find. 

Aw, shit. And I’m fighting off the giggles, because I’m seeing him bein’ awfully cute with pigtails!

“I _was_ rather expecting it.”

“ _What?_ ” 

I think that was me. Lucky Hoshi’s voice is higher, he probably didn’t hear.

Get over yourself, Tucker. He doesn’t know you’re here. In fact I think he’s phased out the rest of the ship he’s so focussed on her, holding her eyes even when she tries to look away, and I know for a fact that’s not easy. It’s hypnotic, that stare. “Plasma residue on the hull; no response to our hails; no biosigns. It was either a trap or a charnel house and once we’d identified the amino acids on the walls as blood…”

She gags a little. Turns out he’s a gentleman too, offering her his glass of water right off. “It still gave me a bit of a turn to see them hanging from the ceiling with tubes flushing out their systems, you know,” he says, and suddenly I’m glad I wasn’t on our First Ever Exciting Away Mission because I’m a little squeamish sometimes and if it turned that iron stomach, mine would’ve probably spilled all over the floor. Better think about something else, Trip old buddy. 

Like the fact that our Chief Tactical Officer assessed a situation faster than Jonathan Archer himself. That’s kind of reassuring when you think about it. With those two watching our asses we’re gonna be just fine, whatever Ambassador Soval says.

Damn. Malcolm’s eyes on my ass. Should I be thinking about that? 

Too late. I just did. 

Focus on his voice, Trip. It’s rich and kind of smoky, easy to pick out even in a crowded mess hall, and when he’s talking so soft and calm it’s smoother than a Carpenters’ melody. I wonder what kind of music he’s into?

Most likely that stuff with the cannons going off in the middle. Or a military march. What’s that you say, Malcolm?

“I think the captain went against his better judgement walking away from that ship, Ensign.” Right, he’s back to ranks now: this is Lieutenant Reed’s professional assessment I’m hearing. “And I’m glad, because quite frankly it’s very much against mine!”

“ _She_ was right, we can’t do anything for those people now.”

I’m learning a lot – not that I didn’t guess that part already. Hoshi doesn’t like the Vulcan much. Malcolm’s shoulders roll through a shrug.

“I know, but fifteen people were murdered by _someone_ , and that someone’s almost certainly going back for the booty soon. Shouldn’t we at least _try_ to prevent them attacking another ship in the future? Wouldn’t it be the _right_ thing to do?”

She snickers. “Without our targeting scanners aligned?”

“Bloody things weren’t this difficult when we ran the sims at base, but we’ll get there and the captain knows it. I think he regrets following Vulcan logic. Or perhaps I’m just hoping he does.”

Oh he does, and again I’m impressed by the guy’s judgement. He’s known Jonathan Archer a couple of months and he’s figured the man out pretty well. I’ve known him years, so I had an advantage in drawing the same conclusion.

“In fact I doubt he’ll be guided by his First Officer’s advice at all next time.” Oh yeah: he’s sharp. I’m starting to wonder if the cap’n knew what he was getting into, picking this one out of all the tactical officers in Starfleet. “If we’re going to slavishly follow the Vulcan code of conduct you’ve got to wonder what we’re hoping to achieve by coming out here at all! And don’t be so hard on yourself! You’d never seen a dead body before, had you?”

“No. Thanks, Malcolm.”

“Anytime.” He stands when she does; I can feel the movement of the air and there’s just a tang of something, all warm woods, moss and spice, that identifies him as uniquely as a warp signature. “I’ll take the trays, and remember – there’s no shame in being scared now and again.”

She snickers and I bet she’s like me, wondering if Malcolm Reed has ever really been scared in his life. He doesn’t seem the type to be snivelling in a corner because he’s found a spider in the bathtub!

I’m gonna have to get that guy into an old-fashioned game of Twenty Questions someday. Because I’m wondering about him _waayyy_ to much for my sanity.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Commander Tucker joins a few colleagues for dinner. Trip makes a request.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s always puzzled me: in episode 1.12 “Silent Enemy” Malcolm says “Trip!” on duty; yet by “Shuttlepod One” he’s asking the sleeping commander if he can call him by his name. I’d assumed that permission had been granted already; here’s my take on how.

It’s been a while since I’ve seen him in the mess hall. The cap’n likes company over dinner that’s got more small-talk than a Vulcan who don’t want to be there; when I’ve made it for breakfast he’s already been on the bridge; and lunch has been a luxury Engineering and the Armoury couldn’t afford for the last couple of weeks. So I’m surprised when he spots me and waves, pointing to the last seat with him, Travis and Phlox.

Mighty social of you, Lieutenant, and I could use some company. They’re enjoying themselves: Phlox waving his hands about so fast he’ll take Travis’ eye out any minute; our boomer laughing; even Malcolm’s got a smile on his face, one of those rare full ones that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle up. I’m guessing we’re not that far apart in age but when he grins like that he looks no older than Travis or Hoshi. 

He scooches his chair over a little to give me more room when I clatter my tray down without breaking the conversation and I’m glad, because it gives me a minute to fall into the flow of it, get a feel for things before I jump in with both size elevens.

“I’m a physician, Ensign. It’s my duty to heal, not harm.” A human would sound pretty pompous saying that but it kind of works from Phlox. “I really don’t see what benefit anyone would gain by my taking part in any form of battle training…”

“It’s called a self-defence assessment, Doctor.” Same difference, but I figure Malcolm’s playing a long game here. He’s got that air about him where he’s just coiled and ready to pounce, like a cat that’s got the mouse cornered and knows it. “And if I didn’t think it was potentially beneficial to you I wouldn’t have raised the issue. I’ve no interest in wasting my time any more than yours, but should we be called on to retrieve casualties from a hostile situation as it stands, Captain Archer would have no choice but to send an orderly. It’s against protocol to send anyone into a potentially dangerous situation without the correct clearances; isn’t that so, Commander?”

The truthful answer is “Damned if I know”, but it gets stuck in my throat and what squeezes out is a wheezy “Damn right,” while Travis chokes on his omelette and Malcolm gives me the kind of approving look I last got from my fourth grade teacher when I handed in my first-ever serious warp engine schematic. It was damn good if I do say so myself, and definitely better than that half-hearted lie to a Denobulan whose grin’s just disappeared for the first time since we left spacedock.

Malcolm sits back and smiles. Not with his mouth, but with his eyes. They’re grey, I think, most of the time but there’s a glimmer of blue dancing in them now. “In that case, Lieutenant, perhaps I’d better check my appointment schedule.”

“I’d be most grateful, Doctor.” Oh, he’s smooth as double cream off a spoon. Now Travis is holding his breath to stop a gut-buster and I’ve got a funny kind of rippling sensation right behind the ribcage. “It won’t take long – unless you’re as inattentive as a certain helm officer…”

“C’mon, Malcolm that’s not fair!” They’re grinning at each other. Cap’n told me they go back a while but I’m guessing he doesn’t know how far, because guys don’t kid around like this until they’ve got at least ten embarrassing drunk nights behind them. “I’ve been trying to put you on your ass since my second semester but you’re just too fast for me!”

Malcolm snorts and I’ve learned something new; he _can_ do something inelegantly. “A hobbled hedgehog would be faster in a defensive situation than you! Did you see how easy it was to drop him on his arse last night, Commander? Even Hoshi had him down twice and there’s nothing of her!”

“I was goin’ easy on her!” Travis jabs a finger at him but Malcolm just laughs. Having seen the way he puts the brick shithouses of his security team down, faster than a polecat up a pipe, I guess he’s allowed to be smug. “You wouldn’t want me to hurt a girl, would you?”

“I was more concerned about your neck than hers.” He tips his teacup and dips his lashes but he’s fooling nobody and he knows it. “Give her a phase pistol and you'd swear she couldn’t hit a cow’s behind with a banjo, but I’d back our Miss Sato against half the ship’s company in a hand-to-hand fight.”

Phlox is intrigued. I’m not surprised. “I’ve heard a rumour she’s got a black belt in aikido,” I say, and Malcolm’s eyebrows shoot up. It’s not often I’m a step ahead of him and it’s a good feeling. “She always says; the bigger they are, the harder they fall.”

“It’s an adage worth remembering, Mister Mayweather.” And he’s living proof of it I guess. He might have an aura about him that adds fifteen centimetres but the reality is Malcolm’s on the shorter side of tall, and in uniform he looks sort of scrawny. It was an eye-opener to see him in tank and shorts the first time, all that taut, sinewy muscle he’s been keeping under cover being put to use throwing his people all over the gym. Mighty impressive, and a little bit scary too.

I’m sure as hell never going to under-estimate him like some of them did, strutting out onto the mat like they owned it only to find their faces mashin’ it thirty seconds later because he hit them so hard and fast they never saw him coming!

It made me feel a whole lot better during my assessment. I couldn’t get a hand on him but I’m not trained to fight, and I’ve never much liked having to either. I’m getting the feeling I’ll have to learn to out here though. So far most of the species we’ve offered to play with have tried to smack us upside the head and run off with our ball instead of playing nice the way I expected.

Maybe Malcolm gives extra classes outside of school. I’d like to make sure I’m not going to be a liability out here and I bet he’d get a real kick out of passing on his knowledge. 

I’ll ask him some other time. Right now I don’t want to spoil the fun while he teases Travis and Phlox sits on his hands to stop himself pulling out a PADD and getting all those smart little snarky English put-downs on record. Travis doesn’t seem to be minding; he’s givin’ as good as he gets, insisting now he’s paid off every extra class he ever did in beer (I knew those two were liquor-buddies, a guy can _tell_ ) and it’s making me smile just to see them having so much fun. 

Travis is a little like me; he’s open. He’ll talk to anyone, whether they want talking to or not. Malcolm? He’s usually so closed up; so guarded. It’s quite something to see him bantering like this, holding his own and then some. He’s a whole lot more complex than that bland professional attitude gives away.

“You’re paying next shore leave, Mayweather,” he threatens and our boomer throws up both meat-platter hands in the UT-free signal for _I give in_. “All right. If the good Doctor doesn’t object, you can be my crash test dummy – sorry, I mean my assistant, don’t I? – for the assessment. If you can throw this great lump, Phlox…”

That’s one show I don’t want to miss. Heck, I could sell tickets, make myself a fortune! “Count me in if you need an extra pair of hands, Malcolm.”

He jumps, like he’s forgotten I was right beside him. “The more the merrier, Commander,” he jokes. What is it with this guy, is it too much effort to use my goddamn name?  


“On one condition. We’re off duty, you call me Trip.”

His mouth purses. Damn schoolmarm, what’s his problem with a little informality between the ranks when he’s just been giving hell to a subordinate bridge officer? “If you insist.” He holds it for a beat. “Sir. Come on, Travis – we’re due on the bridge in - oh, about eighteen seconds.”

Goddamn smug little Limey asshole. He’s definitely laughing at me.

And I’m laughing right back. I always knew he could be fun, if he wanted.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone's trying not to be noticed. And failing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set in the aftermath of episode 1.05 "Unexpected" and referencing the events of the previous episode "Strange New World".

Well here we fucking go again. I should be getting used to the way folks clam up the minute I walk into a room. It’s been happening a lot lately.

Guess it’s to be expected when you get yourself stoned on alien pollen then knocked up by a red scaly alien chick. New experiences, Starfleet said. Do things no human’s ever done before. Make history with every fuckin’ light year.

Let me tell you, making history ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.

I keep my head down while I grab myself a sandwich and a mug of coffee; it’s not adventurous or especially nutritious, but it’s the fastest thing to get through and all I want to do is get out of here and hide. My team’s being sympathetic - meaning they’re just not speaking to me in case they say the wrong thing – but it’s a whole lot more comfortable than having a galley full of people just – gawking.

“Trip!”

“Hey, Malcolm.” He’s smiling, pointing to the chair opposite and it doesn’t hit me ‘til I’ve sat down that he just hollered my name - okay my nickname, same difference - in front of everybody.

He’s been the dutiful officer; he obeyed my orders in the locker room and all through one hell of a workout to the letter. We had breakfast together a couple of days later and I didn’t hear my rank at all, right until the moment Hoshi decided to join us. Then I got _Commander_ again.

I’m real proud of my pips, but you know what? I like my name even better, especially around here where I hear it so damn rarely. 

He’s watching me with his lips all thinned out and that little crease cutting through between his eyebrows. “You okay?” he asks, hiding the question from the crowd with a little lean in for more pepper. 

It’s not officer-like but the compassion in his voice is just too much. I can feel my shoulders going down and I’m hunkered in my chair, making myself as small as I can get without sliding off under the table. I’m too old for hiding, which is a damn shame ‘cause it’s all I want to do right now. “Sure,” I say, like I’m disassembling my turkey salad roll for professional reasons, not because the sight of it turns my guts inside out. “Y’ know; alien foetal transplants, hallucinogenic pollen, blown-out power relays… all in a day’s work.”

“It wasn’t your fault – apart from the power relay, obviously.”

“Wha – oh, funny, Malcolm.” It is, and I can feel my mouth curling up all on its own for the first time in days. “You know, when I was a kid all you’d hear from my Mom all day was _“Trip Tucker! Boy, you’re a magnet for trouble!”_ Cap’n must be thinkin’ the same.”

“Or perhaps he’s thinking – bloody hell, how many mirrors has he broken lately? Did you kick a black cat before we left Earth? Walk under too many ladders? You must’ve done something to hit a run of bad luck like this!”

“Luck?” I can’t believe this. Lieutenant Spick-‘n’-Span, Mister Military Precision, is actually sympathising with me in all my goddamn civilian fucking incompetence.

It sure as hell makes a change from T’Pol making out somebody’s tossed her nasal numbing agent out an airlock every time she looks at me!

“Well I’m assuming you were being honest when you said you hadn’t shagged the scaly one. If you weren’t, I can easily change _unlucky_ for _careless_.”

I know he’s kidding but somehow it’s important that somebody – screw that, that _he_ – understands. “I touched her hand, Malcolm. Stuck my fingers in a box of weird crystals with her on that holodeck thing I told y’ about and the next thing – hello, baby Xyrillian.”

“Not even any fun, then.”

Bone-dry. Right until I snort my coffee over the table and spray him, but Malcolm doesn’t turn a perfectly-groomed hair. Calm as you like he picks up a napkin and flicks the drops of Tucker-spit and caffeine off his jumpsuit, wipes a hand on his sleeve and carries right on eating. “Androgynous corpses and red snakeskin women whose idea of a good time’s to stroke a chap’s fingers. It’s a riot out here isn’t it, Commander?”

“Trip,” I correct him and damn, it’s hard to sound stern when you’re fighting off a good old-fashioned gut-buster! “That’s what you signed up for this mission expecting, huh? Hot encounters of the alien babe kind?”

“One never knows one’s luck – Trip.” He was on the edge of a _sir_ there and he knows I know it, there’s a glint of laughter at the back of his eyes that fades away too fast. “Lord knows I didn’t have much luck with the _human babe kind_.”

I’m finding that kind of hard to believe, and being me I say so. He’s a good-looking guy; got charisma too and that accent, that _voice_ , all smoked crystal. I’d have guessed the women found that combination pretty damn hard to resist.

He laughs a little at my surprise and it must be annoying to have that kind of creamy skin that colours up so pretty. “Oh I got my share I suppose; it’s all the other flummery I seem to struggle with,” he says, then looks shocked that he’s gone and said something personal to a superior officer. 

Damn. I was hoping we’d got past that part. “I know the feeling,” I say, and boy, do I ever. Natalie wasn’t exactly weepin’ and a-wailin’ at the space port waving me off to San Fran; guess it’s hard to be all emotional when the guy you’ve spent a final weekend with can’t wait to get back to work. “The job?”

“I suppose.” This isn’t the kind of thing guys talk about; I can feel myself withdraw and the one thing no alien nasty should expect to see is happening right in front of me. Lieutenant Reed is beating the retreat. “No doubt we’ll all be getting a warning from Phlox about _unfamiliar mating rituals_ , since he seems so bloody fascinated by ours.”

“He got you too, huh?” 

“Breakfast on Tuesday.” His head goes down for a second; when it pops back up he’s different.

There’s a wide-stretched grin on his face and his eyes, well I’d swear he’s just popped them right out of their sockets. “Human courtship rituals really are _fascinating_ don’t you agree, Lieutenant?” he trills, all plummy and proud and so damn Denobulan I could close my eyes and swear it was Phlox sitting there. “I believe Crewmen Morozova and Roberts are displaying the classic antagonism of _sexual attraction_.”

Just as fast, he’s back to Malcolm again. The smile’s still there but it only curls one side of his mouth as his shoulders drop and he takes a slow, meditative sip of his tea. “Frankly it looked like classic _piss-off_ antagonism to me,” he says dryly. “Might want to watch that. She’s got the kick of a wild horse and it doesn’t seem to me as if these scientific types have attended a self-defence lesson in their lives. Wouldn’t want to see one of my team hauled up before the captain on assault charges this early in the mission.”

“Morozova?” My mind’s not completely on what he’s telling me; I’m more intrigued by the little hints I’m getting of that other Reed, the one that’s Malcolm, not the lieutenant. “You do any other impressions I should know about?” I ask.

He sets down his fork. Looks me straight in the eye. Then hits me with a dead-on Southern drawl. “Keep yer shirt on, Lew-tennant.”

Sonofabitch! Whatever I expected, it sure as hell wasn’t that. 

“Sorry, Commander.” My mouth’s doing an impression of its own, of a misfiring launch bay door, and it’s making him nervous. I know he’s nervous because he kind of knots his fingers together and starts to find crumbs on the table more interesting than the stars whipping by. Damn!

“It’s okay, Mal.” Now where did that come from? I’m as surprised as he is, but I’m not flat on my back with a pair of hands around my throat so I guess he’s okay with the nickname. 

Better not use it on the bridge though. It’s probably a court-martial offence, addressing an officer improperly at his station. Or something.

“You’re good,” I say, and I mean it. Cap’n’s known me years and he can’t nail my accent like that. I don’t want to imagine him mangling Phlox. “Any others? I’ll bet you do a mean Jonathan Archer.”

“If I do, it’s best that his friend the Chief Engineer doesn’t hear it.” It’s as near as dammit an admission and he knows it; there’s that sly half-smirk again. It makes me grin just to see it, and suddenly, for the first time in weeks, I don’t feel self-conscious at all.

“If you say so.” I’ve chewed through most of my lunch; what’s left of the coffee’s cold under that thick, rubbery skin that makes me gag. I’d better go.

He’s ahead of me; probably read from the body language I was about to stand, and he’s got both our trays in his hands before I can say a word. “Thanks, Malcolm,” I say, and it’s for more than just doing my domestic chore. “Wanna meet for breakfast tomorrow?”

The cutlery jangles just a little; it’s the only thing that gives away his surprise, because I sure didn’t see him jump. “O-eight-hundred hours?” he suggests and my heart gives a funny skip that he’s not just brushed me off. Maybe he likes me?

I hope so. The cap’n’s going to be real proud when I tell him: I gave the guy a break, and you were right. He’s good.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For once he's kept out of trouble, but events on Terra Nova have left their mark on Trip...

It’s late but I can’t sleep. Anyway, I kind of like sneaking out to the mess hall when most of the crew’s in bed. I can feel the vibration from the warp engines running through the deck plating and boy, does it feel good when I yank off my boots and socks and let them run right through the soles of my bare feet. 

It’s like going on a beach vacation when I was a kid. The thrumming of the engines feels as good as warm sand between my toes and what the hell? I’ve got the place to myself. If I want to walk around wriggling them, just savouring the sensation of my babies purring along like sleepy kittens, who’s going to stop me?

I should probably opt for something soothing but if milk was supposed to be drunk hot, like my Granny used to say cows’d have kettles in their udders. It’s best cold and frothy, and ain’t this my lucky night? There’s one pecan and salted caramel cookie left in the jar. 

Chef hates waste, and I don’t want to be responsible for him being in a bad mood tomorrow before he even starts fighting with those antsy griddle plates he’s been bitching about for weeks. Better eat it, Trip.

Watching the stars streak by with the melody of the engines running up through my feet I can start to relax for the first time all day. I’m spraying crumbs all over the place but I don’t care. My eyelids are getting heavy. Maybe I’ll sleep tonight after…

Shit. That funny little hissing sound means the door’s about to open, and there are my boots right in the middle of the floor. I’m hearing the conversation in Sickbay already…

_And how did you break your neck in the middle of the night, Subcommander?_

_Commander Tucker left his boots in the middle of an unlit room, Doctor. I do not find this behaviour logical._

“Evening, Trip.”

“Uh – hey, Malcolm.” Thank God. He may give my boots the Vulcan eyebrow but he’s way too proper to ask what a senior officer’s doing sat barefoot in the middle of the night. Wait a minute – shouldn’t he be in bed?

“I thought Phlox told you to rest?” He’s too damn stubborn to limp, but all his weight’s being supported through his right side and the way the starlight glistens in them seems to deepen the little crinkles around his eyes and mouth. Normally they kind of dance around when he smiles, but now they’re constant and they look tighter. Guess that’s what pain does for you.

I’m not surprised. He had a bullet lodged in his leg for twenty-four hours, and that’s gotta hurt. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Sickbay?”

“Got myself thrown out for being disruptive.” There’s a little wince when he steps onto the bad leg and I’m on my feet before I know it, ready to catch him if he falls. He doesn’t, of course. Stubborn bastard. Probably using that iron bar up his ass to stay upright.

“Sit down, Mal.” There it is again, the nickname. I’ll bet he’s never been called anything so informal before; most likely he’s too surprised not to do as he’s told but by the way he kind of collapses into the nearest chair I’m guessing even he doesn’t feel up for a fight this time.

That gets me in the guts, somehow. “Tea?”

“I can get it.”

Independent cuss. “I’m already there,” I point out, all calm and reasonable because I know it’ll get him going. Sure enough he’s trying to drag his butt off the seat and I’ll play nice; I’ll pretend I don’t hear the grinding of his teeth when sudden movement tugs tight and hard across newly formed scar tissue. “Tea with a splash of milk and two sugars,” I tell the machine, speaking real slow and careful so it can’t screw up. “How’re you feeling, anyway? And don’t tell me _fine_ , ‘cause I happen to know it’s a court-martial offence to lie to a superior officer.”

“Your knowledge of correct Starfleet protocol never fails to astonish me, Commander,” he drawls, and there he is. Right on the verge of laughing at me. 

Again. 

I don’t care; if it’s taking his mind off the pain, he can giggle all the way through to Alpha Shift. “And thanks. It’s a longer walk than I thought from B Deck.”

“From your place to mine’s a long way when you’re hoppin’, Lieutenant.” Our quarters are fifteen, twenty metres apart and that’s a whole lot farther than I’d want to get in his condition. He’s eyeing the last half of my cookie like it’s love at first sight and before I realise what I’m doing I’ve shoved it his way. “C’mon, gotta keep your strength up! I’m goin’ out on a limb here, but I don’t suppose the food was that great down on the underside.”

He laughs, then winces. “Don’t make me do that!” he yelps, like it’s my fault he’s hurting. “And I’ll never turn up my nose at Chef’s infernal meatloaf again. I swear that animal was still breathing when they served it.”

“Nasty.” I gag at the sight of a rare steak and by the look on his face Malcolm prefers his meat charred too. He grimaces.

“It was eat raw meat or pass out from hunger in a potentially hostile situation; not a particularly appealing choice,” he admits through a mouthful of cookie. “It’s probably just as well I was a bit lightheaded. If I’d been thinking straight, I’d never have been able to stomach it. This is good, though. Sorry – was it the last one?”

“You need it more than me.” I know he’s a whole lot stronger than he looks but he’s had a rough couple of days and right now, in the half-light, one hand hovering over his injured leg, he looks almost fragile. 

It’s not right. I don’t like it. 

He grunts, finishing it off in two mouthfuls, and something deep behind my ribcage twangs hard enough to hurt. “We were scared for you, Malcolm,” I tell him, and shit, was that a break in my voice on his name? “Maybe they weren’t the scariest bunch of bullies we’ve met out here but knowin’ you were hurt down in those caves and there was nothing we could do…”

Hell, who am I kidding? _We_ were scared? I was more scared than I realised until I saw him hobbling out of the shuttle bay with one arm thrown around Phlox’s shoulder, dragging his damaged leg and loudly telling everybody he was _absolutely fine, sir, thank you very much for asking._

Cap’n looked about as sick as I felt. Even remembering it’s making me a little shaky, and that Malcolm’s so cool isn’t helping. “All part of the job, Comm – Trip.”

It’s the correction that does for me. The humanity behind the officer’s mask. “Yeah, well don’t go makin’ a habit of it, okay?” I hear myself stammer, and dammit, which dumbass put those boots right there in the middle of the floor where anyone could fall over them?

Oh. Yeah. That’d be me. 

Play it cool, Trip. Never mind there’s a subordinate officer looking at you like you’ve just started speaking Klingon better than Hoshi. Tug on the boots, forget the socks, there’ll be nobody in the hallways to see you flapping them about. “I'm giving you an order, Lieutenant,” I say sternly. Don’t notice the way your heart jumps when he laughs, Tucker. That’s right, you didn’t notice a thing. “You don’t wanna go over-workin’ that freaky Jell-O critter of Phlox’s, do ya?”

He’s still laughing when the door shuts. It’s a good sound, especially after a shit day and suddenly I’m so tired sleeping won’t be a problem. Getting back to my quarters unaided, now that might be a different matter.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The events of P'Jem are a hot topic in the mess hall. Even - especially - among the senior staff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for episode 1.07 “The Andorian Incident”. Because I’m sorry, I know it’s blasphemy but (Spock aside) I’m not a fan of the Vulcans and I really rather enjoyed seeing them shown up...

Well what do you know? The Vulcans aren’t so fucking superior to us dumb, incompetent humans after all.

The ship’s buzzing, quietly. Folks don’t want to upset the Subcommander, she’s one of ours now whether she likes it or not but there’s a warm, fuzzy feeling in the air, like Enterprise is kind of hugging herself with glee. Like everyone on board’s got the same mental picture.

Ambassador Soval. With his pants down. Doing whatever it is that Vulcans do instead of squirming.

Damn, it feels good!

Even the cap’n; even Malcolm. One’s having dinner alone in his quarters. Working on his report, he says. Highly confidential and all that jazz. Like we don’t know he’s runnin’ scared from having to sit at the table with his Vulcan subordinate hours after humiliating her whole species.

The other? Well, would you look at that! He’s holding court.

Travis. Hoshi. Phlox. They’re leaning in around the table, hanging on his every word and from the shit-eating grins on their faces I’m betting those words include _Vulcan_ , _snooping_ , and _fucking humungous hypocrisy_. And that’s just from Hoshi. This is one party I don’t want to miss so I grab myself a chair and drag it along their way.

Without my even asking Malcolm’s shuffling his seat a little to give me room. Mighty social of him I must say, and he doesn’t even sniff when I bump his elbow squeezing my tray in alongside his. “Not eating with the captain and T’Pol tonight then, sir?”

“Cap’n’s busy.” Travis snorts like an angry buffalo, blowing cake crumbs all over the table. Malcolm’s giving me the eyebrow again. 

“The Subcommander won’t be joining us either, I presume?” Oh now that’s smooth Mister Reed, real smooth. Just as well Phlox is sitting right there. Hoshi’s having a hard time getting her breath and I’m thinking there’s a coronary on the way here.

“No idea, but in her boots I don’t think I would be.”

“In her boots, I’d probably break both my ankles.”

There’s a split second of stunned silence before we just explode and he’s sitting in the middle of it all innocent, like he don’t know what he’s said that’s so funny. Thanks, Malcolm. I think we needed that. “Me too,” Hoshi sputters, and three humans all try and be gentleman, pushing their drinks her way. “Where’s the _logic_ in wearing heels that high? Or that bodysuit? If I didn’t know Vulcans were above that kind of thing, I’d say she was trying to get noticed.”

“Not tonight she isn’t.” When I asked about her the cap’n ducked his head and muttered something about meditation and no, I’ve never heard hidin’ a red face in a dark room called that, either. “So what was it like, Malcolm? That great big fancy sensor array the monks swore they wouldn’t dream of havin’ pointed right at the Andorian homeworld?”

“Powerful enough to give the High Command an idea of your average Andorian’s eating habits, I’d say.” He sounds a tad wistful and I know what he’s thinking because my mind’s going the same way. I’d love to get a look at technology like that! “And they’d be awfully useful in a divorce case. They can probably see through every lace curtain on the planet.”

“This really is a _fascinating_ development.” You’ve got to hand it to Phlox; he could find a bright side to a black hole. “I was under the impression that Vulcans were incapable of deceit, yet they seem to have made a commitment by treaty with the direct intention of breaking it. I wonder if the Subcommander could explain…”

“It’s perfectly logical to lie through one’s teeth to protect one’s own best interest, Doctor.” Pragmatism personified, that’s Malcolm. “Humans can justify pretty much anything on the grounds of self-interest. There’s no reason to suppose the Vulcans are any different.”

“’cept the way they keep shovin’ their superior being crap down our throats,” I growl and dammit I’m meant to be the senior officer present. I shouldn’t be saying stuff like that, even if it’s true. 

Which it is. 

“Well they can take their fine words and shove them right back up their tiny assholes.” Hoshi’s lips smack around the words. I’ll bet she’s got that translated into Vulcan already, just ready to fire off next time T’Pol gets hissy on the bridge. “How did she take it, Malcolm? Seeing all their bullshit exposed by a bunch of dumb humans?”

“It’d be beneath her dignity to kick up a fuss but I’m sure she must’ve been melting with embarrassment.” It’s not beneath his to snicker, and I’m kind of glad. He’s too serious sometimes. “Oh, she didn’t turn a hair; took all the scans the captain asked for and handed them over to Shran without a murmur, but it must’ve hurt. I don’t care what they say, to repress emotion you’ve got to have it in the first place. Deep down she must’ve ached to chuck that scanner at the nearest human head.”

Damn, he had some fun in that reliquary! I’m sorry I missed it, being stuck with the rest of the liars – _monks_ , Trip, you’ve got to remember they’re monks next time you talk to T’Pol.

“We wouldn’t, if they hadn’t been lying in the first place!”

Travis is outraged. Malcolm? Not so much. 

“It’ll be our fault somehow,” he says, so damn calm and reasonable I could shake him. Because I know he’s right, or despite it? I’m not sure. Probably both. “How else can they rationalise it? By admitting they fucked up?”

“I’d pay to see that!”

“So would most of the civilised species in the quadrant, Ensign.” Yes, Phlox is enjoying this just as much as we are but right now I’m more interested in the smirk that’s playing around the corners of Malcolm’s mouth. He’s _so_ not surprised by the biggest scandal in the history of the Human/Vulcan alliance. 

I’m wondering what it takes to shake that composure of his. And what’s more worrying – I’d kind of like to be the one who makes it happen.

“That’s a mighty cynical view, Lieutenant,” I say. He shrugs.

I like seeing him do that. Makes him more human somehow. Less military. “Humans have been breaking treaty commitments for centuries: we’re probably spying on the Vulcans even now, and I’m fairly sure they’ve got at least as big a listening station tucked away monitoring Earth. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer; or it could be the other way ‘round, I’m never entirely sure.”

Now I’m almost as shocked as the ensigns, but I’m damned if I’m going to let him see it. “And which side do the Vulcans fall?” I have to ask. “Friends or enemies?”

“I doubt they could answer that honestly themselves.”

“I’m not sure they could answer _“what day of the week is it?”_ honestly.” I wish Hoshi wasn’t enjoying this so much. Makes me feel kind of bad for T’Pol. She may be a Vulcan but she’s played straight with us so far. 

“Oh, they’d be honest if it was to their advantage.” Malcolm’s an asset out here. He’s not about to go digging for the diamond in the shit pile and I’ll admit Jonathan Archer always does that. Maybe we need a pessimist to offset that big ol’ ray of hopeful sunshine the cap’n brings to the bridge every morning

“Well, I’d better get back,” he says wearily. He’s fooling nobody but Phlox, and that’s candy-from-baby territory; the rest of us can see the sparkle in his eyes as he sweeps crumbs onto his tray and straightens the salt and pepper pots. “While the Captain and First Officer are in hiding, somebody’s got to hold the fort! See you on the bridge, Ensigns. Trip – Phlox.”

“See you later, Mal.” Maybe it’s the way my name sounds in his accent, all bullet-sharp and short, that makes me do it. Travis is gaping. Hoshi – hell, she actually looks scared.

Malcolm? He doesn’t flicker. Look under _imperturbable_ in a pictorial dictionary and you’ll see his face. It’s like he’s doing it on purpose. To challenge me.

Well, nobody named Tucker ever ducked a challenge, especially when the challenger didn’t know they were givin’ it. Aren’t they the ones that always get under your skin most?

And that cool, elegant, dangerous Brit has gotten under mine. Big-time. Now what in hell am I supposed to do about it?


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trip has a problem, and he loves it. Maybe that *is* his problem...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The night after the events of "Breaking The Ice".

This is insane. He’s driving me crazier than that fucking pollen and there ain’t no cure Phlox can synthesise for this one. 

And you know what got me? What finally, completely suckered Trip Tucker? Watching him carve pointy ears on Travis’s goddamn stupid snowman. 

It’s the silliest thing I’ve seen him do. The last thing I expected. Maybe there’s yet another Malcolm Reed buried under all the Malcolms I’ve already been allowed to meet.

The diligent officer. The bright, witty, unpredictable friend. The professional cynic. And now, the playful boy.

I’m an overgrown kid. Always have been, always will be. Maybe that’s why seeing him that way got me so deep in the guts. I’d have loved to be down there with him in Travis’s place. Has anyone had a snowball fight on a comet before? I’d have teased him into it, and that would’ve been one helluva a first for Starfleet to announce.

It’d sure beat the shit out of answering _the poo question_ from some smartass fourth-grader back home. I still can’t believe the cap’n threw that one at me.

I could see how excited he was, holding himself together so tight it almost snapped his spine when Jon suggested their little comet-mining expedition. Travis couldn’t stop grinning and you know what I thought? Boy, am I glad it’s not me! 

I’ve seen snow a couple of times and trust me, it was a couple of times too many. Nobody warns you it’s cold, dangerous stuff that hurts your ass more than you’d expect when you fall in it. I’ll stay on my warm starship with my warm engines, and no pissy Vulcans with Mommas that didn’t teach them their manners sneering over my every move, thanks.

Then we had to make nice and invite them to dinner. Get sneered at face to smug annoying face. Okay, maybe it was rude to mutter about monasteries and surveillance between courses, but hell, if I hadn’t done it the cap’n would, and that’d cause a real ruckus. Nobody expects diplomacy from a _dumb hick_ , however many engineering degrees he’s got. 

I don’t blame Jon for not wanting their help. I don’t like giving them a chance to gloat either. But I’d never have forgiven him if he’d left Malcolm in an icy tomb spinning off through space just because he’s too damn proud to admit we need a hand. 

T’Pol handled him real cleverly. Gotta give credit where it's due, I never knew a Vulcan could read human nature so well. Playing on his fear of Vannik’s prejudices, whether she called it that or not; goading him into surprising the bastards. Sometimes I think she really might be on our side.

Then I remember she’s been sending messages – private, deeply personal things I’ll never forgive myself for seeing, whether she says she forgives me or not. If she’d just been straight about it, called him aside and said Captain, I’ve got to do this… how can she ask us to trust her when she won’t give what she expects to get?

Now I’m blaming her for my own guilt. Maybe it’s part of being human that I can see it, that I’m not fucking perfect and I don’t want to be. And right now I don’t want to think about what could’ve happened to my friend – _friends_ , remember Travis was in trouble too – if her smartass patronising buddies hadn’t been hovering right behind us, looking over our shoulders.

Right. Like that’s not why I’m hunched up by the viewport in a dark mess hall way after all good little engineers should be in their beds. Because I’m not thinking of Malcolm, frozen to death deep inside a nameless fucking comet rolling at warp speed through eternity.

My coffee’s gone cold. Shouldn’t be hitting the caffeine in this state anyway, but Chef’ll go nuts when he notices the pot’s been used without permission. So?

Look what you’ve done to me, Lieutenant Reed!

Aw, shit. Does he always show up when someone thinks about him or is he just doing it to torture me? 

“Oh. Sorry, Commander, I wasn’t expecting…”

_Double shit_ , to quote my little sister when she thinks Mom isn’t listening. He’s all het up already, and me coming halfway out of my seat, leaving my jaw behind on the table, isn’t calming him down any. “Grab a seat, Mal.” There’s that goddamn addictive nickname again, sweeter than strawberries against my tongue. “You want coffee?”

“I’d love one, but warm milk would be wiser.”

“Screw it. You’ve had a bad day. You want caffeine, you have it. The pot’s still hot.”

“And you can point the finger at me when Chef hits the ceiling tomorrow.” When he slumps down facing me I’d swear I can hear my heart crack in two. I wanted to know what it’d take to shake Lieutenant Cool and now I know. Almost freezing in the guts of a comet. Guess that’d give anyone the heebie-jeebies.

It’s reassuring in a weird way. He’s badly shaken up, but he’s brave enough to admit it. To me, anyway. Figure he’ll still be _fine, sir_ when he steps onto the bridge in the morning.

“Mineralogy are goin’ crazy over that eisilium sample you brought home.”

Smooth, Trip. Way to make the guy feel better, reminding him why he almost froze himself to death. Malcolm grunts.

“Glad somebody’s happy, since the Vulcans couldn’t be arsed. Condescending shits. Phlox tells me Travis will be back on duty in a couple of days.”

“That’s good to know.”

Now he’s sipping his coffee, he looks a little better. Even in the half-light I can see he’s losing that waxy look, and while he’s slumping, he doesn’t look so tense around the neck anymore. “I didn’t expect Vannik to offer us assistance, you know,” he says, casual as you like. “Or the captain to accept it. Hoshi tells me we have you to thank for that.”

“It was mostly T’Pol that talked him ‘round, but…”

“We’re going to have to do something about those two. Hoshi’s being quite… irrational in her hostility.”

“Yeah.” I understand. “Makes me nervous too. You wouldn’t wanna get caught in that cat-fight.”

“Christ, no!” That startles him into a laugh, and that flips my poor heart right over. Dammit Trip, remember what you promised after Christian! Never a-goddamn-gain! “But – if you don’t mind my asking – what’s the matter, Trip? It’s not like you to be haunting the mess after midnight.”

I’m guessing that means he does. “Can’t sleep,” I hear myself admit, hanging my head like it’s something to be ashamed of. He chuckles.

“I rather guessed that. What I was wondering is – why? As far as I know the engines are behaving themselves…”

I’m tempted to tell him about T’Pol. Hell, I’m tempted to tell him anything that’ll keep us away from the truth but I’m a Tucker. We’re lousy liars even when we’ve been practising for it, and I didn't come here expecting an interrogation. “It’s been one helluva day,” I hedge. “Hoshi probably told y’ all about the questions we got from that damn school class.”

“I hear you handled a tricky situation with tact and grace, Commander.” He lights up when he teases me. I’ve got a nasty feeling he’s not the only one glowing a little here, either.

“Gee, thanks.” The words just well up in my throat and I can’t stop them spilling all the way along my tongue. “I was scared for you today, Malcolm. Knowing you and Travis were stuck down there and I couldn’t pull y’ out of that hole…”

“I doubt our grappler could’ve done it whoever was pulling the strings.” For a moment his hand comes down over mine and it feels like it’s been plunged into scalding water. I can feel the burn going all the way through, and thank God for the shock that holds me rigid. He doesn’t get it. He thinks I’m feeling inadequate; that I failed.

Because that’s what he’d be thinking in my boots. He hides it pretty well but there’s a streak of insecurity a light year wide under that stern professional shell, and right now I’m just selfish enough to be grateful for it. “Yeah, maybe.”

He doesn’t know my hands were shaking so bad it’s a miracle I didn’t just swipe the whole damn comet off its axis. He can’t tell there’s warmth spreading all the way to my toes just from the brush of his skin, a little rough, callused where he grips his phase pistols, on the back of my hand. And that’s just as well.

He’s my friend. He’s comfortable around me, out of his shell. I’d seal myself inside a comet before I’d scare him back in there again.

I’ve got a good buddy here named Malcolm, and a girl back home called Natalie. I’m one lucky bastard, and if I say it often enough who knows? Maybe I’ll start to believe it.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Malcolm's birthday. So how come Trip's the one anticipating a present?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A brief epilogue to end this fic before it gets even further out of control... thanks for reading!

I’ve never seen him so relaxed on duty. The beer must be helping.

He did a little double-take when the Cap’n showed up with the bottles; I thought he was going to refuse, but I figure he knows that gleam in Archer’s eye by now. I’m just glad it’s not being directed my way.

I thought he’d seen right through me the other day when he asked that innocent little question. “You spend much time with Malcolm?” Heck, only every meal I can sneak away from your private mess sir! Workouts once a week; even, when I can talk him into it, movie nights. I grabbed at those few hours in the armoury as something safe – something legitimate - because sometimes I forgot how well Johnny Archer knows me and right then I thought I was being reminded, big-time.

It wasn’t exactly a lie – that line about power relays. That’s honestly all we talked about. Malcolm’s kind of focussed when he’s working. I like that.

I even liked it when he was spitting that snarky little _“Yes, sir”_ in my face in the maintenance shaft. He’s got confidence in himself, and he don’t back down when he knows he’s right.

And yes, I admit – he was. 

I liked his little preen when I told him so, too. And the bashful, innocent way he reacted when I accepted his recommendation. 

What I’ve liked best the last few days (apart from the way he pushes his sleeves up when he’s working – man, he’s got sexy forearms!) is the way we’ve gelled together as a team. Him and me, bouncing ideas, squabbling, making things work. He even called me Trip, right there in the armoury.

Never thought it’d give me such a kick to hear my name!

Natalie’s face crosses my mind – kind of. It’s funny but she’s already hazy, like the small details have gone. Are her eyes blue or green? Is that her smile I’m seeing, or does it have a little _Ruby_ in it? 

Her letter was a punch in the gut, even if I wasn’t exactly surprised. Long-distance relationships ain’t easy, and this is about as long distance as you can get. I was – I’m sure I was – upset when I realised where all her pretty words were leading.

What I’m not is heart-sore. My pride’s a tad dented and there’s a funny little tickle in my belly when I think of her, but whatever the cap’n might think I’m not playing it down. It’s almost like I’m missing the sentimental idea of having a girl back home waiting, not the girl herself.

Damn, that sounds nasty. Selfish.

Is it crazy, though? We had fun; she’s smart, sexy and great company. That’s why I went dancing off down to Pensacola every leave I got in the last six months before we launched. Didn’t stop me thinking more of my lady Enterprise down there than I thought of Natalie back at base, but it was… fun.

Damn. Now it sounds like I was using her.

Well, maybe she was using me too. From “wait forever” to “sorry, movin’ on up” didn’t exactly take long. I’m thinking this is the best thing that could happen, for both of us.

“But you did your jobs pretty damn well yesterday.”

Well thank you, Cap’n. I noticed that. It’s why your starship’s still flying without great big holes in. 

Malcolm lifts his glass. “Cheers.”

I can’t help it. Talk first, think after. It’s the Tucker motto – or one of them. “If you really wanna thank us, how about lettin’ us sleep in tomorrow?”

Was that insubordinate? To anyone other than Jon Archer, maybe.

He grins. “Permission granted.”

Sleeping in with Malcolm. Damn, I can picture it already.

Him all rumpled, that perfect dark hair mussed. Sleepy-eyed I’ll bet he drawls as good as any Southern boy, doing one of those slow, full body stretches I’ve admired at the gym in a horizontal position. You just know he can’t lay still and go back to sleep once his alarm’s gone off. He’d have to be _doing_ something.

Like making love. I’m seeing him take a whole morning over it, given the chance. Giving it his undivided attention. Getting it right. Making it good.

Really good.

Oh, shit. Maybe I should go lean nice and casual on his workbench. I don’t think anyone’ll buy me saying I’m just storing a big old hyperspanner in my pants.

I’ve never been so happy to see Hoshi. Heck, in this condition I’d probably feel the same about a rampaging horde of Klingons but now everybody’s looking at the component the cap’n wanted. Means there’s less chance of anyone looking at one of mine!

Forget the Klingons. A right hook couldn’t floor me better than the full-beam Malcolm smile that proves Hoshi’s pineapple hunch was right on the money. It’s all I can do to hold it together while she dodges his question with a line about _having our sources_ and he cuts up great big slices of birthday cake to hand around.

He’s gorgeous. 

And when our fingers catch on the edge of a plate, I’d swear he blushes as hot as I do. 

There’s no thought process behind it. No strategic assessment of risk and reward. When the cap’n and Hoshi gather up the whole big cake and, at Malcolm’s request, take it off down to the mess hall for the crew to share, I put out a hand to stop him following. “You got big plans for your birthday, Mal?”

“Oh, just a lukewarm night in with a dull book, Commander.” He’s using the title to tease me, and by the way I’m tingling in a specific location I’d say it’s working. I’m not going to jump into bed with the guy – even if he’s willing, and that’s one hell of an _if_ to start off on – but I want to know him better and maybe, someday, if he’s interested…

“How about you ditch the book for an action movie and a birthday supper with me instead?”

There’s that smile again. “I’d like that.”

Another meal with Malcolm, alone in my quarters this time. Yes. I’m going to like that too.


End file.
